When my stepmom sold the one thing my late mom left me—a cherished antique piano—I thought my heart couldn’t break any more. But she had no idea her spiteful move would cost her far more than a piece of furniture.
My mom died when I was just 14. Cancer. It wasn’t fast, it wasn’t easy—it was a long, painful process that seemed to drag on forever. I watched her fade away, day by day, until she was barely the person I had known. But even in those last days, when she was exhausted and frail, there was one thing she never stopped doing: playing her piano.
It was an old, beautiful Steinway, an upright. Dark mahogany wood, ivory keys that had yellowed over the years, and the legs—oh, those carved legs—elegant like something from an old movie. She would sit there on the bench, no matter how weak she felt, and play. Jazz, old standards, a bit of classical—anything that came to her. I would sit on the rug, eating my cereal, and listen to the sound of her fingers dancing across the keys.
It wasn’t just music—it felt like home. Like her voice, even when she wasn’t speaking.
When she died, everything changed. The house felt empty. Silent. Cold. At her funeral, people came up to me and asked if there was anything I wanted to keep. I didn’t care about any of her clothes or jewelry. I didn’t even want her rings or her books. I just said, “The piano. That’s all I want.”
Dad promised. “It’s yours, honey. I promise you.”
He made sure it was in the will. I saw it. That piano was legally mine.
For a while, it stayed in the living room, just like a promise he hadn’t broken. But then came Tracy.
He met her when I was 16. I was still a mess—grieving, angry, and just tired of pretending everything was fine. But Tracy breezed in like she was straight out of a Pinterest board—a bubbly, blonde woman with a fake smile that never seemed to drop. She always smelled like peppermint mocha and laughed too loud at things that weren’t funny. She’d ask personal questions, too personal, making me uncomfortable with every word.
And then there was Madison—Tracy’s daughter. She was my age, but so different from me. She wore expensive boots, had perfect hair, and seemed like she had everything figured out. The first thing she ever said to me was, “You kinda look like a homeless Taylor Swift.”
Yeah. That was day one.
When Dad married Tracy, I knew things would change, but I didn’t know how fast. At first, it was small things—she’d move things around, clean out drawers. But soon, the photos with Mom started disappearing. The ones with Dad and Mom at the lake, at Christmas—they were replaced by pictures of Dad and Tracy in Cabo, in Aspen, and of course, in matching Christmas sweaters.
One day, I went looking for Mom’s cookbooks. Gone. Her scarves? Gone, too. Everything that reminded me of her was just… gone. But the piano stayed. I think even Tracy knew there were some things she shouldn’t touch. Or maybe, she was just waiting.
Then I went off to college. It was out of state, and I needed the distance. Home didn’t feel like home anymore.
Fast forward to spring break. I came back, excited for a break and maybe some sense of normalcy.
I opened the door to the living room and froze.
The piano was gone.
Not moved. Not covered. Gone.
There was just an empty space, a ghost of what had been. A faint outline on the carpet. Dust where the pedals had been. I stood there, staring, as if maybe if I just waited, it would reappear.
“Dad?” I called out, heart pounding.
From the kitchen, I heard Tracy’s voice. “Oh, that old thing? I had it hauled away. It was falling apart.”
My mind couldn’t process the words. “What?”
She stepped into the living room, holding one of her ridiculous green smoothies. “Sweetie, you never even played it. It was just taking up space. I figured it was time to get rid of it.”
I felt a knot form in my stomach. “You WHAT?” I croaked. “That was my mom’s. That was mine!”
She rolled her eyes. “Come on, you’re being dramatic. It wasn’t even yours.”
I was shaking. “It was in the will! My dad said… he promised…”
She shrugged, her fake smile still plastered on her face. “Well, too late now.”
I ran upstairs, my mind in a whirlwind. My hands were trembling as I grabbed my phone and texted Dad.
Me: “Where is Mom’s piano??? Tracy said she sold it.”
Nothing.
I stared at my phone screen until my eyes blurred. No answer.
Downstairs, I could hear Tracy laughing on the phone. She was talking about selling the piano to a buyer in Ohio.
And all I could think was: she really did it. She sold the one thing that made me feel close to Mom.
And my dad… he was silent.
Two days later, Dad came home. I was still up in my room, lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to understand what had happened.
I heard the door open, the sound of his suitcase rolling across the floor. For a moment, I didn’t move. Then I heard him stop.
He didn’t say anything at first, which was strange. He usually yelled “Hey, I’m home!” or asked if I wanted to grab dinner, but this time, nothing.
I crept out of my room, standing at the top of the stairs, watching.
He was standing in the living room, staring at the spot where the piano had been. His shoulders were tense, his body stiff, like someone had just knocked the air out of him.
Then Tracy walked in like nothing was wrong. She was wearing workout clothes and holding a green smoothie, smiling as though she hadn’t just ruined everything. “Oh, you’re back!” she said in her sugary-sweet voice. “How was the trip?”
Dad didn’t look at her. “Where’s the piano?” he asked, his voice low but sharp.
She blinked. “What?”
“The piano, Tracy. Where is it?”
She hesitated for a second, then smirked. “Oh, that old thing? I sold it. It was taking up space, and she never even played it.”
Dad just stood there, staring at her. Then he slowly put his hands on his head, his voice barely a whisper. “Oh my God…”
Tracy froze, her smile vanishing. “What?”
“I hid your birthday present in there,” he said. “I taped the box under the bottom panel… inside the piano.”
She looked confused. “What kind of present?”
“A Cartier necklace,” he said, his voice tight. “Three thousand dollars. I was going to surprise you with it.”
Tracy’s face turned red with anger. She dropped her smoothie on the floor. “You’re joking.”
“I can show you the receipt,” Dad said, his voice flat.
Tracy backed up like she had been slapped. “You’re serious?”
Dad nodded, still staring at the empty space.
Tracy grabbed her phone and dialed furiously. “Hi, this is Tracy—I sold you a Steinway upright last week—I need it back, like right now.”
I stayed upstairs, hidden in the shadows, listening.
Her voice grew louder. “What do you mean it’s already out of state? You have to track it. There’s something valuable inside.”
Silence.
“No, I didn’t know! It wasn’t mine—it wasn’t STOLEN, it was—” She paused, then slammed the phone down.
She spun around, looking at Dad, her face red and furious. “Why would you hide something like that in a piano? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Dad was calm, too calm. “Because it was supposed to be a surprise. For your birthday. But now it’s gone. Because you couldn’t leave well enough alone.”
That night, I heard them fighting. I didn’t mean to listen, but they weren’t being quiet. Tracy’s voice was sharp and defensive.
“You should’ve told me! How was I supposed to know?”
Dad’s voice was colder than I’d ever heard it. “You should’ve asked. You never once asked her if she was okay with you giving away her mother’s things.”
“She’s not a kid anymore—”
“She’s still my daughter. And that piano was the only thing she had left of her mom.”
There was a long pause. Then, I heard Dad say something I’ll never forget.
“That piano was hers. And so was my trust — which you just threw away.”
The next morning, Tracy was gone.
Her closet was half empty, and there was a note on the counter that said, “I need space. Don’t call me.” Dad read it silently, folded it, and slid it into the junk drawer without saying a word.
A week later, he sat me down and told me he had filed for divorce. His voice was calm, resigned. “I should’ve stopped it earlier. I should’ve seen what she was doing to you. To your mom’s memory. I’m sorry.”
I didn’t know what to say. My throat was tight. I just nodded.
We never found the piano—or the necklace. They were gone, probably sitting in someone’s living room in Ohio. But something shifted between me and Dad. It was like the storm had finally passed, and maybe, just maybe, we could start fresh.
Things between Dad and me slowly got better. It wasn’t overnight, but it was something.
He started making Sunday breakfast again—pancakes, scrambled eggs, the works. Just like Mom used to. We didn’t talk much at first. But we didn’t need to.
Then one morning, he asked me to come to the garage. I followed him out, still in my pajamas.
There, under a blue tarp, was a secondhand upright piano. Not as grand as Mom’s, a little scuffed, but it had the same hand-carved legs and soft, worn keys.
“I know it’s not hers,” he said, his voice rough. “But it’s yours now.”
I didn’t say anything. I just sat down and played. The notes were shaky at first. But they came. One by one. And for the first time since Mom died, the music felt like home again.
